


you say you have no secrets, then leave discreetly

by levendis



Series: Prompt Fics [104]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Identity Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 11:29:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10018247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis
Summary: When he says 'run', they run.





	

**Author's Note:**

> for anon, who prompted: Request for a nine/rose fic! I'm not picky, I just wanna see em bang

The name sits heavy in the back of his throat. It’s been there since he died. Since the war ended.

He’d thought that, maybe, he ought to earn it. Prove himself to be the word that he’d like to be, do good deeds, play the part, perform the penance or - whatever. So he did, he tried, watching history curl around him as it had before (gently, not recoiling - the war was over). Watching faces blur, the universe in the rear-view mirror. If he could just do enough, be enough, fix enough, be fast enough; if he could be what he was then he could _say_ what he was. Give a creature a name and you gain power over it. Give yourself a name…well.

So he ran, and it sat there - the name - sat in the back of his throat. And he tried his very best not to resent it. Since he’d never asked, never wanted it back, never expected to do anything other than finally die, anonymous in the brownfields, the rest of the world moving on. Since it wasn’t fair, really, to be doing all this all over again. Like the universe shoving him back, fake-playfully, saying _go on then. If you think you’re hard enough. Keep going._

So he ran, and it wasn’t enough, and he might have been slightly desperate, and he might have given up. On being himself, that is. Since he couldn’t knock himself loose, couldn’t cough himself up, no matter what he tried. Maybe he’d given up.

And then. And _then_. He’d grabbed a stranger’s hand, and without even realizing it, he’d said. He’d said it.

_I’m the Doctor. Now run._

* * *

 

(When I say Run, you run.)

 

* * *

 

Her name is Rose and she’s young, probably, and pretty maybe. She used to work in a shop. Her accent matches his, although she doesn’t agree - there are subtleties he’s missing, potentially, or else she can’t hear the specific pitch and tone. The sound beneath the sound.

He’s seen himself in a mirror, now, and he’s seen the two of them in a mirror, together. It’s all very strange and very right and he can nearly recall how this felt. How it used to be normal. Himself - with a name - and a human - with their name - and the two of them, their potential energy.

When he says Run, they run. It’s all so very familiar.

 

* * *

 

(He forgets - he forgets and she’s scared - feels guilty? A year has slipped away. It’s nothing. A year, this planet, it’s nothing. A few days real-time, give or take an interpretation of ‘day’. She’s young and small and her mother is angry and he feels the thing that he is retreating back inside himself.)

 

* * *

 

His name is the Doctor and that’s starting to feel right. Her name is Rose and that feels right, too. From what he can remember of roses. Delicate but prickly - with defenses - and alive, if even for a relatively short period of time. Defiantly, brilliantly alive. And pink, like she is, pink and yellow and soft (beyond the defenses). Simple but complex.

She holds his hand and she looks at him, searchingly, and he thinks this feels familiar too. How her grip is a shade too tight, or too invasive - in a way he wishes he could welcome - she looks at him and he averts his gaze. It’s just that it’s been a while. There’d been a war. He’s not sure he can be like that anymore. He’s not - it’s complicated, that’s all.

 

* * *

 

(A Doctor by any other name would still be just as much of an arse.)

 

* * *

 

The universe is broad and open and time still shudders around him. But like a tetchy cat, now, who needs him to earn its affection. Rose would say that he’s the cat, in this scenario. Maybe she’s right.

She looks at him, bright and alive and quick, too quick. She’ll be dead within a century. She’s got a calendar (with pictures of cats) and a cheap plastic watch (seconds, minutes, hours). All pink and soft and hard and beautiful, he can say that now, because he’s pretty certain he remembers what ‘beautiful’ means, in this context.

And she’s looking at him.

When she says Run, he runs. She takes his hand and looks directly into his eyes - he tries to look directly back, with middling results - and after an arbitrary length of Earth-based time she takes his other hand and stands up on her tip-toes and she. Does that thing, does he remember this? He thinks maybe he does. With the mouths and the inside-of-the-mouths and the place where his name used to be, and those are all open, an exhalation of air rushing over them. A shared breath, and all their heartsbeats together. His lips feel odd. Hers are pink, flushed.

And she’s still looking at him. “Is this okay?” she asks. Like she’s scared, or guilty.

Maybe it is, maybe it’s not. It feels right, though, somehow.

 

* * *

 

( _Brave heart_ , he whispers, mostly to himself.)

 

* * *

 

She’s got layers and he’s got layers and together they remove some of those. His coat, her shoes. The denim contraption she’s got tied around herself. She seems very into his trousers, or into getting them off, rather - he holds his breath and tries to remember what he’d bothered putting down there.

She slips her hand between his legs and smiles up at him reassuringly. Hopefully that’s a good sign. Is this good? She seems more vulnerable than usual. Probably he’s meant to be vulnerable now, too. Just that he’s rarely felt safer, even if he is mildly confused.

“It’s okay,” she says quietly. She does that thing with her mouth again, her mouth and his mouth. She exhales against his skin and slips down, her heels back down on the floor, and she squeezes his hands.

“I’ve got a bedroom,” she says. He nods, not quite knowing what he’s agreeing to, but trusting in the universe anyway. She takes him there.

 

* * *

 

Her bedroom is warm and pink and filled with pillows, and the illusion of mid-morning sun through the windows. There’s a bed; he lets her guide him down on top of it.

She takes the rest of her clothing off, and then the rest of his.

“I don’t,” he starts, then forgets where he was going.

“It’s okay,” she says again. “I get it.”

She probably doesn’t, but she means well.

There’s a fine dusting of small, soft hairs all over her - does he have those? - that grows thicker and darker between her legs, under her arms. She giggles, and then gives him a look he can’t interpret when he brings his fingers to his mouth, inhales deeply. The scent of her, sweat and arousal and the whiplash timestuff brought up hard and abrasive against her linear humanity.

“You’re very…” He trails off.

“Yeah.” She lowers herself down, making a very familiar expression.

So he’s got a cock this time, which is good - considering the circumstances, in general he’s not terribly fussed - he’s got a cock and she’s making a familiar expression as she slides herself down onto it. One hand on his left ear and the other braced on his belly, tugging slightly at the hairs he’s delighted to discover he’s put there (it’s a nice tactile sensation, is all).

“Is this good?” he asks, moving his hips experimentally.

“Like. In general. Yes? But don’t - oh, yeah, that’s nice - wait no not that, the other - yeah, thanks.” She’s moving above him, making a face. Time is incrementally passing.

She loves him, he realizes. In her own way. This human way. He tries to thrust in whatever time she’s keeping. Whatever makes her moan, which is to say whatever helps her get out of this what she wants to get out of this. On his part, he’s just happy to witness this. Her life, the time that she has, spent with him - in part - the soft thing beyond the thorns entrusted with him, the love that she has within her shared with him.

And she says his name. Says it again, and again, and it sounds right, it feels right, like it’s him that she’s referring to, not the ideal of himself, not a dream he’s woken up from but. Him. Here, and now, with her. It’s the first time in a very, very long while that that name’s ever felt like it fit.

She’s reaching some destination - does this feel familiar? - she’s reaching a set point and his hands are steady on her hips. She’s going somewhere around him. He tries to keep her time. She makes a face and exhales and falls on top of him. The warm, quick pulse of her against the skin he wears now.

“Okay then,” he whispers, his hands light on the small of her back.

“More than okay,” she responds. She curls in around him tightly, and then shortly after starts snoring.

He shifts, and gently dumps her off of him onto the pile of pillows, and waits a few minutes to make sure she’s still asleep. Rose - that’s her name - and the Doctor - that’s his - here, together. It feels alright. He smiles, and tucks the blankets around her before leaving as quietly as he knows how.


End file.
